


practice for everything in this life

by architecture_in_f1ll0ry



Series: korvira week 2020 [1]
Category: Avatar: Legend of Korra
Genre: F/F, Korvira Week, Longing, Mostly Canon Compliant, Some profanity, Unrequited Love, and the mortifying ordeal of being known
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-04
Updated: 2020-10-04
Packaged: 2021-03-08 04:08:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,076
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26819314
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/architecture_in_f1ll0ry/pseuds/architecture_in_f1ll0ry
Summary: “I respect you for everything you said in there, Kuvira,” Korra says, one hand braced on her hip, giving Kuvira a small smile. The late morning sun spills through the window beside her, and the brightness momentarily blinds Kuvira to the rest of them, leaving only Korra in view.Or maybe it’s not the sun. Maybe that’s just Korra.--A very brief retelling of the events of Ruins of the Empire.
Relationships: Korra/Asami Sato, Korra/Kuvira (Avatar)
Series: korvira week 2020 [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1957684
Comments: 5
Kudos: 81





	practice for everything in this life

**Author's Note:**

> my entry for day one of korvira week, for the theme of longing. 
> 
> title is from the poem "heirloom" by nikky finney—I've included some of it below.
> 
> \--
> 
> My elbow cranks a high, hard cradle  
> and draws a fire. To the end of the day's
> 
> sweaty air stirs fast in a bowl, the coming  
> shadows, the very diamond match I need.
> 
> One by one, each Blind Willie  
> takes his turn Pollocking the back
> 
> fence, heart pine explodes gold-leafed in  
> red and brown-eyed ochre. There is practice
> 
> for everything in this life. This is how  
> you throw something perfectly good away.

Scorn. Contempt. Distrust.

Their expressions are all so exactly identical, it's almost be funny. All of this could be funny, really, if it were happening to someone else, if it was someone else who had tried and tried and failed so spectacularly. If someone else was made to scrape along the ground, inching ceaselessly toward absolution, or redemption, or fuck, just some peace. A secure knowledge of who she is and what she means to this world. It’s all she's ever wanted, really. 

But it’s not someone else, it’s _her,_ Kuvira, being cross-examined in this war tribunal, standing before her former family, her former allies, former supporters—all of them, every single one of them, now falling neatly into the category of enemy. It makes things simpler, at least. Neater. The world versus Kuvira, and it doesn’t feel self-indulgent or melodramatic to think of it that way. She had a companion who understood her ambition and goals, and that very same ambition was nearly the catalyst for his death. She cannot be surprised there.

The sun is shining brightly just outside the courthouse windows, a cruel reminder of the larger world’s indifference to her plight, the natural order blissfully uninterrupted. Inside, the glares. The whispers. The sudden hush, wherever she goes—wherever she’s taken, rather, dragged about with the ever-present hand closed firmly around her upper arm, her wrists chafing within the platinum chains. 

And, of course, there is Korra, somehow always in Kuvira’s periphery, wearing the same disapproving expression, exuding the same unease when Kuvira is near.

Kuvira understands it, she does. She is intimately acquainted with the shame of having gone too far, of weaving her ideals too tightly into her methodology; completely losing her barometer for realistic, reasonable action somewhere along the road to uniting her scattered kingdom and bringing it into the modern age. _Slippery slope_ is what it’s called, but it’s so much more than that: it’s a rapid accumulation of responsibility and problems, and if one isn’t strong enough, decisive enough, they will quickly crumble beneath their combined weight. Kuvira is not weak. And so now, she suffers for her strength. There were too many problems that could not be solved with anything but violence. Kuvira cannot apologize for that.

But something in Korra’s eyes—the way they track Kuvira carefully, her mouth pointed downwards as she watches Su berate her, yet again—it makes her wonder if one day she might. 

The thought is jarring, and it makes Kuvira shrink a bit, as if suddenly prodded in a place she hadn’t realized was so tender, so easily bruised. 

So she marches past Korra, forcing her head high and back straight, shoulders stiff, and doesn’t think about waking up in her arms in the spirit world, disoriented and raw and afraid. 

//

“I had a feeling you were going to be my first visitor,” Kuvira says, pleased. There is no reason for her to feel _good_ right now; she’s imprisoned, she’s disgraced and brought low; Korra is not here to deliver good news or grant her forgiveness. Nonetheless, her presence is grounding. And Korra’s next words are wholly unsurprising, somehow.

“I need your help,” she says plainly, in that ringing voice of hers, the one that makes everyone around her fall over themselves to be whatever she needs them to be. Kuvira is a little ashamed at how easily it works on her, too.

“With what?”

“Tell me about Commander Guan.”

//

The day is mild, the sun just beginning to peek out from behind the clouds after the late morning rainshower that left the ground slightly damp. Kuvira inhales deeply, unable to tamp down the slow, bubbling wellspring of contentment in her chest, knowing she cannot afford to get used to this kind of freedom. Still, just for a moment, she lets herself give in: the gentle caress of the wind in her hair, the warmth of the sun on her face. It’s invigorating. 

“I’ll take the prisoner from here,” Korra is saying, and the word slams Kuvira unpleasantly back to earth. She tries to inject a bit of levity into her tone, determined to make all of this trouble worth it. 

“The prisoner?” She repeats, and swallows when Korra’s hand rests on her upper arm, leading her to the entrance of the humming airship. They walk in perfect unison up the plank, the rhythm of their steps as one. “No need to be so formal, we’re partners now.”

Korra doesn’t like that. Kuvira glances back at her as Korra makes her status crystal clear: Kuvira is a threat, and will continue to be treated as such, even if Korra needs her assistance right now. Kuvira wonders, watching her eyes narrow further, her jaw tighten, how far Korra would be willing to go to keep Kuvira in line. Would she knock Kuvira unconscious? Would she kill her? Find a chi blocker to neutralize her bending?

When Korra demands verbal assent to her demands, Kuvira does her best to smile, though it feels like a strange gash in her face, unused to making the expression and feeling embarrassingly bad at it. She’s not sure how sincere it comes off, but she tries to make up for any accidental ambiguity with her words. “Of course,” she responds simply. "You’re in charge.” 

She doesn’t know how successful she will be; she has no clue how Guan will react to her appearance, but she doubts it will be with open arms or understanding. Still, Korra is counting on her. Kuvira has given up trying to rationalize to herself how significant that is. 

More glares, more silent recriminations. How boring. “Nice to see you too, gentlemen,” she quips a few minutes later, once she's settled. If she’s going to be here, for however long that is, she might as well have some fun.

// 

Asami wouldn’t piss on her if she were on fire, that much is clear. Still, Kuvira can’t stop herself from voicing her curiosity, however poorly timed it may be.

She’d heard two guards discussing it the day after Korra and Asami returned from the spirit world, the news of Avatar Korra and Asami Sato's romantic union, the talk of Republic City for a straight week. Kuvira had nothing to do but sit in her cell and imagine it: Korra and Asami in the same field of violet flowers, sharing kisses in the soft grass, probably baring their hearts and souls and fears and whatever else people freshly in love talk about after a harrowing, life-or-death experience. In fact, nearly losing each other probably made their coming together all the more passionate and heartfelt, and Kuvira hates herself for thinking so much about it, but she can’t help it. 

She wonders if Korra told Asami. Told her about the way she’d looked slightly disappointed when Kuvira pushed away from her, stricken with a sudden panic and overwhelmed with the intense torrent of conflicting emotions. Probably. They probably tell each other everything. It’s pathetic, the slow lance of jealousy this thought inspires, every time, but Kuvira is so humbled already—what’s one more source of shame to throw into the mix?

So she alleviates it, just a bit, the only way she knows how.

“It must be challenging for you, being the Avatar’s girlfriend,” she says slyly, glancing at Asami from the corner of her eyes in the bathroom’s mirror. She refocuses on her reflection as Asami visibly bristles, pulling herself taller, her face pointed in suspicious annoyance. 

“Excuse me?”

_What is she like?_ Kuvira wants to ask. _When she’s not being the Avatar, when she isn’t saving the world from villains like me, how does she relax? What kind of smile does she wear when she isn’t in front of cameras? How do you cope with her built-in savior complex, with your constant gnawing fear that her next adventure, or mission, or whatever, might be her last? How does it feel when she holds you?_

“Well, you could be back in Republic City running your business,” Kuvira says instead, not missing a beat. “Or inventing another piece of machinery. Instead, you’re stuck here in a bathroom, guarding me.”

“I’m exactly where I want to be—protecting Korra from you,” Asami returns, the slightest tremor in her voice. She’s furious, and trying not to explode. Kuvira feels a grudging sense of respect. “So whatever little game you’re playing, it’s not going to work. You’re not going to drive a wedge between me and Korra.”

Kuvira’s stomach twists uncomfortably, and she feels her hands ball up into fists. _You’re not going to drive a wedge between me and Korra._ As if she could. And if she could, would she? Isn’t she supposed to be changed, reformed, proving herself a worthy—what? What does she want to be to these people, exactly? The ever-swirling miasma of questions is enough to drive her up a wall on a good day, and somehow, being confronted with them yet again, here, while she stands between Asami, Bolin, and Mako, is a thousand times worse than hearing them echo off the cold walls of her old cell. At least there, no one glared at her like this, so smug and secure in what they think they know of her and her past. 

When the call from Korra comes in, Kuvira is ushered into the front seat, watching from the corner of her eye as Asami throws the car into gear, speeding them down the gangway, her hands gripped tight on the steering wheel. Asami notices her examining the gearshift curiously, and frowns.

"What?"

"Nothing."

For a few seconds, Kuvira just closes her eyes and blocks out the world, letting the air whip past her face. 

//

She loses control. Again.

Guan is a fucking asshole, in her defense, and she’s been holding a lot of aggression inside for weeks now. If he’s the only one still idiotic enough to continue the Earth Empire charade, and she the only one strong enough to take him down, permanently, why shouldn’t she do it? She wasn’t going to _kill_ him, just incapacitate him for a while, show the ragtag troops remaining that she was still highly capable, and what awaited anyone else who tried to take her place. 

But taking matters into her own hands is what got her into this mess in the first place, and it’s what gets her restrained in a platinum suit, humiliated at being made to heel, like a dog who’s soiled the rug. Still, if she’s going to be here, if Korra is not going to toss her back into prison, she’s still going to try and be useful. And it works, because at her suggestion of finding someone more suitable to run for governor, Korra’s face lights up, a triumphant smile on her lips, her blue eyes widening. Kuvira can’t look away, but it doesn’t matter, because no one is looking at her anyway.

* * *

They’re all so goddamn _stupid._

Of course, it’s not just Korra with the hero complex, but maybe that shared trait is what brought them all together, this merry band of brave idiots. Kuvira watches in dismay as they’re easily brought down by Guan’s men, Asami shouting her refusal to let her out so she can help—determined to believe the worst of Kuvira, to the end, apparently. She has no idea what Guan could possibly have in store for them, but she knows it’s nothing good. 

No. It’s worse.

“I hoped those who had gone astray would see the error in their ways,” Kuvira explains, a note of pleading in her gruff tone. She hates being this powerless, trapped in this ugly prison that keeps her immobilized and weak, trying to reason with someone who’s clearly beyond it. The sight of Asami, Bolin, and Mako all hooked up to these frightening machines, only their furious, terrified eyes darting between her and Guan—it shortens her breath, like she’s struggling to summit a steep mountain climb, suddenly lightheaded within the rapidly thinning air. She’s never suffered from claustrophobia, but her heart pounds crazily right now, sweat pouring, her hands twitching uselessly inside the platinum suit.

“You might change your opinion once you see what Dr. Sheng and I have accomplished in your absence,” Guan replies, his voice as slick as oil. “I think you’ll be quite impressed.”

Kuvira’s mouth goes dry. “Please, _don’t!”_

It’s a useless plea, of course. Guan is too far gone in his delusion, his fucked up ideals. Kuvira understands the feverish gleam in his eyes, drunk on his own power. That recognition sickens Kuvira more than anything else. 

Asami’s eyes are a burning brand, their color so similar to Kuvira’s own. She struggles ceaselessly within her restrains, her panicked, angry shouts pathetically muzzled. Kuvira thinks of Korra, thinks of the way she’d spied her kissing Asami goodbye, the way she’d pulled her close and rested their foreheads together, blocking out the rest of the world. Love. That’s what it looks like. The memory settles like lead in Kuvira’s stomach, and she wishes she could transmit to Asami, somehow, how desperately she wishes she should rescue all of them from this situation. Be the hero, for once. But she can’t, of course. She’s no Korra. 

“Asami,” she tries anyway, “You have to know, I didn’t mean for any of this to happen.”

Asami’s answering glare is clear: _liar._

All Kuvira can do is stand uselessly by as the machine groans to life. Watch as the three of them twitch and jerk in pain as their minds are wiped clean of all original thought of impulse, mindless slaves to Guan’s will. It’s over quickly, and she tries not to shudder at the identical dead look in their eyes, a cruel mockery of their former fire, when they were all gazing at her with the same shade of contempt. A very small, bitter part of her takes some perverse humor in the irony—and then she’s finally being freed and unshackled, and her time has come. 

“Easy, Kuvira,” Guan says gently, like she’s a feral dog, caught in a trap. “Don’t resist.”

_Like fuck,_ she almost says, and decides to let her body do the talking instead. She almost laughs as she jerks herself free; it’s too easy, no one is fast enough to pin her down, especially not now, when she has lost absolutely everything, and has everything to prove. 

She’ll have a hell of a time explaining herself to Korra, who will immediately suspect the worst, but she can’t think about that now.

And shit, she knows she should have had Baatar teach her how to drive, but she can feign that easily enough; she has no choice. 

It’s simple enough to lure away a patrolman, knock him out, and steal his uniform, and soon she’s behind the wheel, bending the metal of the car forward so it speeds away and out of sight, waiting until she’s gone far enough to come to a silent stop, take off her helmet, and just breathe. It’s nearly dusk, the sun settling in the horizon amidst a gentle wash of purple and orange, and her hair is sticking to her face with sweat, her blood thumping with adrenaline. But she’s safe, she’s alone, she has a car she can sort of drive, and she’s determined to do whatever is necessary to prove herself. 

She needs to find Korra.

But first, she needs to talk to Su.

//

She doesn’t cry the moment she hears Su’s voice over the phone, but it’s a close thing. 

Somehow, Kuvira convinces her to send help. Maybe this isn’t irreparable, after all. Kuvira holds onto that faint spark of hope, however small. It’s more than she’s had to hold onto in a long time.

//

Kuvira doesn’t know what it says about her that the sight of Korra stalking towards her, twin flames already shooting from her fists, should make her heart stutter madly and her mouth go dry, but she doesn’t have time to examine it before Korra is bending the fire directly at her.

Kuvira stands her ground, certain that Korra wouldn’t just burn her to a crisp before hearing what she has to say, and she’s right: the flame encircles, but doesn’t touch her, just making her hot enough to be extremely uncomfortable. 

“I warned you if you hurt my friends, I would take you down!” Korra shouts, eyes flashing, arms still outstretched.

“I didn’t harm them, I swear!” Kuvira yells back, willing herself to breathe normally, in and out, determined not to glance down at the wheel of fire, keeping her eyes trained on Korra’s face instead. She’s like an avenging angel of death, the force of her bending blowing her short hair around her head, her teeth bared in fury. 

“So, where are they?” she demands. “And why are you wearing that uniform?”

Kuvira explains, as quickly as she can, but Korra doesn’t believe her. No matter, because Toph is there—Toph, whose disdain she can practically taste _(“You give metalbenders a bad name!”)_ —and that’s all the proof she needs. She waits, with bated breath, a spike of fear running through her—what if Toph decides her sins are too great to trust her truth-telling now?—and then sighs in relief when Toph nods once, looking back at Korra.

“Yup, she’s telling the truth.”

“She is?” Korra asks, extinguishing the flame, looking uncertain. Behind her, Wu clumsily dismounts from Korra’s polar bear dog.

“How do you know for sure?” he asks.

Kuvira works hard not to roll her eyes. “She’s a truth-seer.” How did they not know this?

She walks them through the brainwashing ritual with Guan, her narrow escape, the implications this has on the already-fraught election. At some point, Korra just lowers herself to sit on the ground, her face growing increasingly pinched with worry, her fingers ceaselessly stroking the back of the red fire ferret in her lap—Bolin’s animal, Kuvira remembers. Something with a P. Kuvira’s never been good with animals. 

Soon, Su arrives. She isn’t Kuvira’s mother, far from it—Kuvira still feels the acute sting of her betrayal all those months ago, of confirming her suspicions that she’d try to kill her in the dead of night—but still, the sight of her makes something stick in Kuvira’s throat, and she has to blink fast to keep her eyes from spilling over as she stands in the doorway of the airship, gazing down at her with curious fear and suspicion.

“Hello, Kuvira.”

“I appreciate you coming,” Kuvira manages, before Toph interrupts with a warning.

“Sorry to interrupt this joyous reunion, but Guan and his cronies found us. Let’s skedaddle.”

Kuvira wants to be helpful. She wants to show that she’s changed, that she can fall in line and follow orders, not put up a fight. She walks onto the airship, ignoring the way Su’s eyes follow her, as if waiting for her to strike. Then she hears Su speak up from behind her.

“Korra, what are you waiting for?”

Kuvira pauses, listening. 

“You go. I’m not leaving without Asami, Mako, and Bolin.”

Kuvira turns and watches her walk away, taking in the straightness of her spine, the tension coiled in her shoulders, her measured, steady gait as she charges headlong into more danger for the sake of her friends. And she’s gripped with a sudden longing to be a part of something greater, a force that would compel her to sacrifice _herself_ , rather than someone else, a bond so strong she doesn’t even consider any alternatives before rushes into an oncoming storm. 

But she doesn’t want Korra to be hurt. She couldn’t stand seeing that machine drain the fire from her eyes, even if she doesn’t actually look at Kuvira with anything but pity and dislike. She tries to dissuade her, poorly, and Korra cuts her off, stopping in her tracks to turn and fix Kuvira to the spot with a pointed glare.

“I’m not going to abandon my friends to that madman!” she shouts. 

Kuvira exhales, makes a decision. “Understood.” She steps forward, mildly gratified when Korra’s eyes widen, watching her approach. “Then I’ll help you get them back.”

Korra’s eyes travel her face for a moment, as if searching for something, and then she gives a small, short nod that warms Kuvira from within. She turns, and Kuvira sees her take a deep, steadying breath. “Thank you.”

The others come forward to offer their help as well, and soon it’s a proper standoff, with Asami, Mako, and Bolin at the front of Guan’s forces. Kuvira can feel the tension rolling off of Korra as she takes in Asami’s dead-eyed stare, her electrical glove at her side, ready to deploy against them. She wants to say something to her, but she knows no words of comfort would be welcome, and it’s useless, anyway. It’s a selfish desire; she simply wants to recreate that very brief moment of gratitude from Korra, and it’s a realization so stark and raw that Kuvira tightens her jaw and shoves it down, deep enough where she won’t need to examine it for a while. They’ve got much bigger fish to fry right now.

The fight is quick. Wu is taken, but they manage to bring Asami with them, and Korra’s expression is one of anguished determination as they lock her into the very same full-body enclosure that Kuvira was in a few days ago. When she emerges from the room where Asami is being held, her arms are crossed tightly against her stomach, as if holding something tightly inside. She walks right over to where Kuvira is seated, her mouth a set line. 

“You were saying earlier that there might be a way to counter the brainwashing, right? Please tell me it’ll work on Asami.”

Kuvira looks up at her, at the strained lines of her neck, the bloodless pallor of her cheeks. She wonders what Korra would do if she reached out to touch her hand—firebend at her again, probably. A stupid thought.

“I got a good look at Dr. Sheng’s setup. I’m sure there’s a way to reverse-engineer it, but I won’t be able to figure it out alone.” At this, she has to turn, refocusing her gaze outside of the window, feeling like her chest is being compressed into a very small, cramped space. That claustrophobic sensation, again, at the thought of facing him, facing what she’d done. “I’m going to need Baatar Jr’s. help.”

* * *

He’s still furious, of course. But he’s sad, as well, which is worse.

Being back in Zaofu, back in the estate, it’s a million things, all at once. The familiar wainscoting and the way the marble floors gleam beneath the yellow gleam of the wall sconces; the austere quiet of the dining room, which Kuvira was rarely invited into when she lived here; the hushed sound of her feet traveling the rugs lining the long hallways, remembering all the times she’d run to her room and slammed the door behind her, clenching and unclenching her fists, feeling the familiar swell of hurt and rage threatening to spill over, but she mustn't lose control or she’ll be abandoned again—

And then it’s time to free Asami of Guan’s grip on her mind, so she loses herself in that, rather than old memories. It’s a relief. 

//

It’s not working.

They’ve been trying for hours, and nothing is changing. Asami’s half-lidded gaze, devoid of emotion, remains the same; the declarations of loyalty to Guan varying slightly, but delivered with the same dispassionate inflection. Kuvira can see Korra losing patience, and Baatar is wilting with disappointment; he hates to feel like an obvious answer is evading him, he’s always been that way. Kuvira can’t offer much; there’s nothing she can do to pacify Korra or put her mind at ease, much as she might like to, and Baatar is too hurt and walled-off from Kuvira still. Even if he weren’t, he’s the expert in the room, not her; all she can offer is facts and useless guilt. 

She watches Korra pace, deliberating quickly, thinking again of the way she’d looked at Asami on that field, the naked despair in her eyes when they’d had to capture her, slap her in handcuffs for their own protection. She swallows against a wave of jealousy so strong it feels almost like nausea, and forces herself to speak.

“What if you started with someone who hasn’t been brainwashed yet?” she asks Baatar, steadfastly avoiding Korra’s gaze. 

He frowns, pauses. “Interesting...using an autonomous subject would give me a proper baseline, and I could calibrate the settings from there. But there are some risks…”

_Of course there are,_ Kuvira nearly shouts. _I don’t care,_ she wants to tell them. _Just use me, give me some purpose._ Naturally, Korra beats her to punch.

And is shot down, as she should be. It steals some of Kuvira’s thunder, but it doesn’t matter, because they still look at her as if she’s grown a second head when she speaks up, offering herself instead.

_“What?”_ Baatar and Korra ask in unison.

It’s Su who tries to talk her out of it, which makes no sense to Kuvira, who’s already strapping on the headpiece, feeling a little off-kilter with both nerves and exhaustion. What would this do? Would it potentially wipe her memories, make her one of those vacant-eyed robots who exist only to parrot a programmed phrase? She knows Baatar wouldn’t actually wield the machinery that way, but thought holds equal amounts of horror and appeal for her—the undeniable truth of the fleeting thought making her hands tremble. Korra gets out of the chair so she can sit down, her expression one of thoughtful concern. “Commander Guan and what’s left of the Earth Empire are my messes to clean up. I’m ready.”

Kuvira hears Baatar’s surprised mutter to his mother. “Maybe she’s more changed than I thought.” She keeps her eyes focused forward, drumming her fingers restlessly on the underside of the chair, all too aware of Korra’s unwavering gaze on her, biting her lip. 

“Try to keep your breathing calm and your mind clear,” Baatar says, waiting for her to close her eyes, exhaling slowly. Then there’s the quiet click of the dial, and everything goes black.

The memory is immediate, crystal clear and devastating.

She was never welcome here, not really. She was given clothing and fed and bathed and had every material need attended to, so she could never complain.

Perhaps she and Opal were never destined to be friends; Kuvira was jealous of her instantly, jealous of her rightful, undeniable place in the family, so beloved and coddled by her parents, especially, Kuvira knows, because she cannot bend. And Opal resented Kuvira in turn, despite the false cheer she put on in front of her parents—now there was another child her age to compete with, demanding the attention of her mother because of her troubled past, and so naturally gifted in bending. Kuvira wanted to be her friend as deeply as she wanted to hurt her; she burned with the desire to make the world feel a bit more _fair_ , to put a crack in Opal’s infuriatingly shiny veneer. Even her name, _Opal,_ so round and pleasing to the ear; Kuvira’s name was all too easy to spit out, usually tinged with fear and distaste. 

“She’s a stray dog nobody ever wanted,” she can hear Opal whining from the other room, as she sits on the bed in her room, staring at a spot in the floor. If she stares at it hard enough, everything begins to blur until the world wavers completely out of focus, her eyes burning with the strain. “Not even her real parents.”

Not even her real parents. 

Her hands are clenched tightly in her lap, trying to stop them from shaking. She thinks about her parents, her real parents, and can barely remember their faces. She wonders if they think about her, ever, or if they’ve simply moved on with their lives, glad to be rid of Kuvira. Maybe her mom had another baby, one who won’t hurt her with powers she can’t control, make her cry. Maybe her dad spins the new baby around and laughs, like she’s seen Baatar Sr. do with Opal, sometimes. Opal laughs so loud, a high, blissful sound. Kuvira has never laughed like that, she doesn’t think. 

Stray dogs that no one wants don’t get to laugh like that. 

“Kuvira?”

It's Korra. 

Why is Korra here? She hasn't met her yet. 

A warm embrace in a field of flowers, strong arms encircling her. _We are nothing alike._

_Yes, we are._

“Kuvira, are you all right?”

Kuvira blinks, flexing her fingers. They’re stiff and painful. She can’t look at Su; she looks almost exactly the same as she had in the memory. To her left, Korra has an arm outstretched, as if about to touch her shoulder. Kuvira doesn’t flinch, though she wants to. She’s half-afraid she will shatter into pieces at the sensation, and already, she can’t handle the way they’re looking at her right now. She takes a breath, and then another, dragging her mind back to the present, suddenly aware that her head is pounding, a deep ache that extends down to her neck and shoulders. 

She has to speak; they’re all staring at her, waiting for her to break. She won’t, not again.

“Did you get what you needed?” she asks, willing her voice not to shake, reaching up to pull off the headpiece. 

Baatar’s expression is unreadable. “Yes.” Then he turns to Korra, and Kuvira nearly slumps in relief, ready to fade back into the background. “You can bring Asami back in.”

Kuvira wrestles briefly with the idea of leaving them to handle the rest, but of course she won’t, she needs to see this through. She wants to see it work, she wants to see Asami blink and come back to herself, and Korra’s resulting explosion of relief, pulling her in close, her other half returned to her. The masochism feels good, a necessary ache, running much deeper than the one currently making her eyes water with pain right now.

“You will no longer obey Commander Guan’s orders,” she intones clearly, slowly. “The Avatar is no longer your enemy. Your mind is yours again.”

Asami’s green eyes open, and for a moment, she stares uncomprehendingly at Kuvira, frozen. And then there’s a quiet intake of breath, and Korra rushes in front of Kuvira, kneeling, placing a tender hand on Asami’s thigh. “Korra…” Asami breathes, tears springing to her eyes. Kuvira bites her lip, and has to look away for a moment. 

Asami can’t remember anything, apparently.

Kuvira watches them embrace, but rather than the sharp sting of pain she’s expecting, she’s filled with a dull sort of anticipation, a vague plan beginning to form. 

//

The call she was expecting comes soon after: she’s going to be brought back to Republic City, returned to her cell. After everything, she’d failed again. It’s time to put her plan into motion. There is nothing else she can possibly lose.

Making amends with Baatar is impossible, but she tries anyway, because she knows she owes him that much. However this ends, he deserves to know she loved him. Not enough, clearly. But it was there. 

And then the guards arrive, and she does what she needs to do. 

//

It’s very easy for Kuvira to fool Guan. She can see that he wants to believe her, which is half the battle. She knows the sway she has over people, can still see the remnants of fear and respect for her in his eyes, despite his cocky posturing. That she would submit to his leadership strokes his ego even more. 

The easiest part of all, of course, is confessing to her desire to forget. Her need for oblivion. It’s a fantasy; she can never outrun her past, she knows that now, but Guan takes her at her word, even looks a bit shaken at whatever horrors in her past she’s obliquely alluding to. Everything is unfolding according to her plan when she’s surprised by Mako and Bolin, who she’d almost forgotten about. 

Oh well. Two birds, one stone. If she knows Su, she and the others are halfway to her by now.

She can hold her own easily against Guan and his lackeys, and Mako and Bolin, but all of them together against her aren’t quite the odds she’d like. But she will not—cannot—lose this fight. Not when she’s come this close. 

As expected, help arrives, evening the playing field. Guan, sensing defeat, attempts a getaway, but Kuvira pelts after him and launches him out of the car, meeting him blow for blow. He bends the entire vehicle at her, which she slices in half, the loud screech echoing horribly in the still night. She’s panting, but he’s in much worse shape, his eyes wide and desperate, watching helplessly as she pins him to a wall with sharp metal shards, lodging them only centimeters away from piercing his skin. He releases a high-pitched squeal when the last shard nearly impales his groin, scrabbling uselessly where he’s pinned.

“Still think I’m a spineless coward?” Kuvira huffs, bending another piece of metal to hover close to her hand, braced. 

“All right,” Guan spits, trembling, spittle foaming at the corners of his mouth. Pathetic. “You win! I surrender!”

Fuck that. Too easy. Kuvira can feel that old sensation, that old itch, rising up in her like the swelling of an ancient tide. “It’s too late for that,” she growls, advancing on him slowly, her vision narrowing to his heaving chest, imagining sinking her metal into his heart, watching the life bleed out of him. She should be frightened by the impulse, she knows, but all she can see is red. “I’m making certain you never rise again!”

It’s Su’s harsh voice that stops her in her tracks. “Kuvira, stop!”

Guan’s eyes dart from Kuvira to Su, wide and pleading. 

“Killing Guan won’t solve anything,” Su says beseechingly. Kuvira clenches her jaw, wanting so badly to just stop hearing her, to follow the pounding of her blood, to make _someone_ suffer, to give in and stop trying so hard to be good. To complete her descent into villainy. Isn’t that all she was ever destined for? Su’s next words are quieter, meant for her ears only. “It won’t bring you any peace.”

A gentle wind whistles by, cooling the sweat on her temples, easing the fire raging beneath her skin. 

_We’re both fierce and determined to succeed,_ Korra had told her. 

_I think I understand you now._

“You’re right,” Kuvira says, dropping the metal to the ground with a resounding clang. Maybe she’ll always have to keep that fierceness within her at bay when it threatens to bubble out of control, but it’s just that—the _control_ , that’s what she can work on mastering.

The way Korra has. 

It's hard; it'll be the hardest thing she's ever done. But if she’s still breathing, it can’t be too late.

“But make no mistake, Commander Guan—you’re finished,” Kuvira continues, her voice stronger now. “And the Earth Empire is over. For good.”

He swallows, then raises his arms, nodding to his remaining soldiers. “Everyone, stand down!”

//

The mood is nearly jubilant in Gaoling the following morning, with the rest of the brainwashed Earth Kingdom citizens freed, followed by loud applause for Korra’s efforts.

“You should really be thanking Kuvira,” she says, and Kuvira starts in surprise, feeling a flush of warmth, something fluttering low in her stomach as Korra continues speaking. “If she hadn’t taken matters into her own hands, Guan would still be in power.”

There’s an odd pause, and Kuvira ignores the looks sent her way; many of them unconvinced, some still openly hostile. She focuses instead on Korra, who’s now looking back at her, her brows slightly furrowed. 

“But this doesn’t mean you’re off the hook.” Her voice is firm, but there’s a softness in it, too, and Kuvira chooses to believe it’s regret for what she says next. “I have my orders to take you back to Republic City.”

Kuvira holds her gaze for another second, wondering what Korra sees in her eyes, is she sees even a fraction of what Kuvira can no longer deny she feels, the heartbreaking impossibility of it. Foolish. She swallows, nods. “I know.”

//

As Varrick finishes his damning testimony, Kuvira briefly considers destroying every ounce of good will she's been given, and bending a strip of metal at his mouth to shut him the fuck up. They’d all secretly thank her, she's sure of it. 

“That’s _enough,_ Varrick,” she interrupts finally, before she can give in to her baser impulses. The way he immediately cowers is immensely satisfying. Smug billionaire prick. 

“Do not intimidate the witness, Kuvira,” the judge scolds. “We will hear what he has to say.”

“You don’t need to,” Kuvira responds, standing tall, feeling the weight of everyone’s gazes on her back. Control, she reminds herself. “I confess to everything.”

//

The looks sent her way after this trial are notably different: there are cautious smiles, murmurs of surprise, grudging nods. It’s all a little bit of a blur; Kuvira is unused to so much positive attention, and remembers, abruptly, how unsteady it makes her feel, always braced for something to go horribly wrong. It’s a far cry from ideal, but it’s a few steps closer, that’s for certain.

“I respect you for everything you said in there, Kuvira,” Korra says, one hand braced on her hip, giving Kuvira a small smile. The late morning sun spills through the window beside her, and the brightness momentarily blinds Kuvira to the rest of them, leaving only Korra in view. 

Or maybe it’s not the sun. Maybe that’s just Korra. 

“You really redeemed yourself.” 

Kuvira wants to say something, anything that captures the depth of her gratitude for Korra’s presence, her stability, her willingness to give Kuvira the chance for redemption, but she can’t. If she opens her mouth, too much might spill out, and now Bolin and Mako are talking, and Korra’s taking Asami’s hand, their fingers entwining casually, naturally. Kuvira drags her eyes away from their touch and shakes her head a bit, coming back to her new reality.

Her disappointment means nothing, in the face of this larger triumph. She’s going home. Whatever that means. Whatever she can make it.

* * *

Kuvira stops reading when she hears the knock on her bedroom door, setting down her book and rising from her bed to cross the room. When she opens it, Korra is standing there, a sheepish smile on her face. 

Kuvira gapes, her stomach performing a slow roll, her face flushing with heat. “Avatar?”

Korra rolls her eyes. “Please don’t call me that. It’s weird.”

“What are you doing here?” It’d been nearly a month since her trial, and Kuvira was fully settling into her new life back here in Zaofu, confined to the sprawling estate, trying to reintegrate back into the family. It’s strange, and uncomfortable at times, but it’s...livable. Sometimes even something approaching pleasant. 

Korra stuffs her hands into her pockets, shrugs. She looks so much like someone much younger, sometimes. Kuvira drinks in the sight of her, not realizing how much she’d...missed her, if she’s being honest, until her unexpected appearance. “I thought you could use some new company?”

Kuvira bites her lip against a smile, afraid of what it might reveal. Is this another dream? “That’s...kind of you.”

“Yeah, well.” Korra rolls her eyes again, then gestures with her head to the left. “I thought we could go for a walk, or something? Unless you’re busy,” she adds quickly, looking suddenly apologetic. “Sorry, I just assumed—”

“That I have no life?” Kuvira quips, and Korra’s eyes narrow in slight worry, before she seems to realize Kuvira’s making a joke. “You’re right.”

“Oh. Ha, well, good?”

Kuvira chews her lip against another smile, her chest fluttering madly. She steps out of the room and closes the door, slightly awkward as she nods at Korra. “We can...go to the courtyard?”

Korra’s sudden grin is blinding, and Kuvira feels a physical ache at the sight of it. “The courtyard, huh? You trying to spar with the Avatar?”

“That wasn’t what I had in mind, but—”

“Don’t go soft on me now,” Korra cajoles, clearly back in her element now, faced with the prospect of something physical she can throw herself into. Kuvira is struck with the realization that Korra probably didn’t know exactly how to handle this visit, but felt compelled to make it, because she’s _Korra,_ and being unpredictable and compassionate is her M.O. Still, Kuvira is a mystery to her, and the prospect of a conversation is much easier when it's accompanied by some tangible activity. 

“You’re on,” Kuvira shoots back, lips twitching, and then they’re off, walking side by side down the hallway, their arms brushing every few steps. Every point of contact sets off another spark beneath Kuvira’s skin, and she glances over at Korra at the same time Korra looks at her.

_Oh,_ she thinks, as Korra gives her a half-friendly, half-embarrassed smile, and then looks away, asking how she’s been. _Oh, shit._

“Not much to report,” Kuvira deadpans, and Korra snorts. “Tell me about the world outside; that has to be much more interesting.”

She loses herself in the sound of Korra’s voice, only half-listening to the news of Republic City, the Earth Kingdom state elections and the developments of the new Air nation. Her voice dips a little when she mentions Asami and her new Future Industries successes, turning tender, and Kuvira’s heart clenches with a sudden pain that already feels worn, familiar. 

It doesn’t matter, though. The day is overcast, the sun hidden behind the clouds as they step onto the courtyard, standing opposite each other in battle stance, Korra smirking as she sends a lazy taunt her way. If friendship is what Korra has to offer, then Kuvira will happily accept it, and won’t flatter herself by ever believing she’s entitled to more. Surely, eventually, she’ll be able to let this infatuation go. 

Right?

“That the best you got?” she smirks, after dodging Korra’s half-hearted blast of fire. Korra sends her that cocky sideways grin again.

“Not even close.”  
  



End file.
